We googled the times for Hot Tub Time Machine. I'm not sure we stopped laughing once. Afterwards, though, I started to think about the 80s and what I would change if I could. That's always dangerous. I pulled out my quintessential 80s photo album. The first thing I would do is convince my former self not to tease those bangs. I didn't even do it correctly. This decade was not good for frizzy-haired girls. It was just a nest perched on one side of my forehead. Don't worry, the straightening iron will take care of that. Just wait. I would have stayed in dance class even though I looked like a stuffed sausage in my pink leotard. You'll have a growth spurt. Just wait. I would have warned my young aunts about relationships that end in heartbreak. This guy ends up being a real jerk.  

In this album, there were pictures of people who are no longer alive. I would have pulled the cigarette out of my grandfather's hand, out of Craig's hand. I would have fought fiercely to protect the children that were falling victim then, prevented the unspeakable, salvaged their innocence, their childhoods. To hell with the Butterfly Effect. 

Then I saw the pictures of my sisters and how happy we were in the 80s. How we held our noses as we plunged into the motel pool during our annual trek to Pensacola. There were pictures of smiling friends and cousins helping us blow out candles on our homemade birthday cakes, of neutral ground sack races, neighborhood basketball games, Christmas mornings, choreographed dance routines in my purple bedroom. These events were all before the chaos that caused chasms in the 90s. 

I haven't seen my sisters in years. I would have held on tighter.